The Doctor is In
by marylinusca
Summary: The Creator of Sherlock Holmes visits the library


_I wrote this story as a 'Canon Fodder' to commemorate Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's 150th birthday. Since he is a real person, I decided his story deserved to be on its own._

**The Doctor is In**

Of course I recognized him. How many times had I seen his face on a book jacket, or on one of the many internet sites devoted to Sherlock Holmes? He looked more like a country doctor (who could afford a very good Saville Row tailor) than an author; but I knew from his moustache and the set of his jaw exactly who he was.

Goggling, I rose. I couldn't say a word.

"So, this is _MY_ Room, eh?" Sir Arthur gave it an inquisitor's eye. "Too dark and shadowed compared to the rest of the place; but it has the _feel_ of a library." He nodded. "I approve. Well done."

His moustache twitched as he held out his hand. "I'm Conan Doyle," he said. "My name is on the door, so I thought I'd be welcome here."

"Ahh … Err … yes. You are. Very welcome," I managed to say. "Ah … Happy Birthday, Sir Arthur."

He nodded, smiling. "Not bad for a hundred and fifty, hmm?"

I nodded back, flustered. "No, Sir. Not at all."

So many questions jumped upon my tongue. Was life on the other side all he thought or believed it was? Did he meet his first wife, Touie, there? To my knowledge, she never manifested at any séance. Did he base Doctor Watson on himself? Did Bertram Fletcher Robinson write portions of _The Hound of The Baskervilles_ – at least the descriptions of the moorlands – as some people have said?

They died unuttered. Perhaps it was a good thing they did – especially the last question. Sir Arthur had insisted that he wrote the whole of _The Hound_ himself – "all in my own style" – and it does not do to offend a celebrity.

I offered to fetch my boss. Someone in authority. Someone with a camera. My immediate masters were good at talking with celebrities. The Friends, the Bookmakers, the Library's publicity people, everyone would be very displeased if I didn't alert them _at once_. I was over my head and might lose it if I did not inform the higher powers of Sir Arthur's presence.

But Sir Arthur cut off my blathering with an upraised hand. "The fol-de-rol can wait. Let me see what you have here."

He snapped open his spectacle case and adjusted a pair of wire-rims over his nose. Then he slowly paced counter-clockwise around the Room, inspecting each shelf almost in anticipation of a 'good read'. Occasionally he ran his fingers along a spine, or pulled out a book and, holding it in his broad hands, silently read what must have been a familiar and beloved passage.

I sauntered beside him, pointing out where his own writings sat: Sherlock Holmes, his other tales, the autobiographies, the histories, and, of course Spiritualism. He raised his eyebrows and puckered his lips at the amount of the Room devoted to 'the Canon', looking first at it, then at the opposite corner at _Micah Clarke, The White Company, The Lost World_ and the rest.

"I had hoped that a room bearing my name would have more of me inside it," he muttered. Then, seeing me bite my lip, he rendered up a smile. "I'm resigned to Holmes basking in my limelight. I realize I owe him what wealth I've earned. But I am more than tired of bowing to my creation and even less tolerant of being mistaken for him."

"The doll and its maker?" I quoted.

"Exactly! Sherlock Holmes was only a tiny bit of my oeuvres." Raising his cane, Sir Arthur pointed it across the room. "There! _Brigadier Gerard. The White Company. The Great Shadow. The Tragedy of the Korosko. The Land of Mist._ All mine, and better than Holmes." The cane moved right. "My _Memories and Adventures. The Great War in France and Flanders. The Great Boer War._ My African, Australian and American Adventures. _The Crime of the Congo_. I exposed abuses and injustices. Edalji and Slater were freed because of me. Why am I known only for Sherlock Holmes?"

"You also wrote a lot of propaganda … ," I ventured.

"Not propaganda," he huffed. "I told all I observed in South Africa. I told all I observed of the spirits' work. I told what was told to me by those who saw, knew, and understood. Trustworthy people. You call it 'propaganda'. I call it 'truth'."

"I'm sorry, Sir Arthur." I said meekly.

The flush in his cheeks subsided. "Well," he said after a harrumph, "You're not the only disbeliever. Most people I meet have closed their minds upon the first thing they heard from a quack, and won't open them up when the truth is revealed."

He looked hard at me. "You think it's all my imagination."

"You are a great story-teller, Sir Arthur," I replied.

"It's no yarn. I was once a sceptic; but I've observed it. I've studied it. Spiritualism is real and true."

"'The Undiscovered Country'," I murmured.

"The Unexplored Country," Sir Arthur amended. "We all discover Death. It is only a veil to the spiritual realms."

Gently grasping my arm, he drew me beside the card index. "Look at this room. In half-darkness. Old furniture. Old books. The work of my old life."

He moved behind me and, taking my other arm, he turned me to face the door. "Now look through the glass. Sunlight streaming through the windows. Students reading from electronic books. Discourse conveyed miles though the ether. A vast country: bright, lively, full of new ideas, re-discovered truths, and enlightened souls, unafraid of arcane knowledge."

"I've read every explorer's yarn I could find, and I've travelled extensively, both in my mortal form and afterward," he continued. "I sailed in an Arctic whaler, and in ships along Africa and Australia. I've seen your prairies and mountains, and, with Fletcher Robinson, the vast, desolate Devon moors, and they thrilled me. When I drove a motorcar or skied down an Alp, I felt exhilarated. Throughout my life, I've yearned to gaze over the walls and beyond the shores. That's what draws me: the quest, the danger, the adventure into uncharted waters.

Hearing the passion in his voice, I thought, 'Is this what made Holmes and Watson 'real'? Their creator's restless soul straining to satisfy the need to know Truth – and to experience new pathways to it?

I saw him gaze at the kids with their laptops and had an impulse. I knew it would cost me. The time was not yet three o'clock, and the Room was to stay open until four. But this was my one moment alone with a great author, and I wanted to impress him.

So I grabbed the keys of the Room with one hand and Sir Arthur's sleeve with the other, and hustled him through the doorway, pausing only to lock the door, toss the keys on the Performing Arts desk and tell their librarian to tell Peggy this was an emergency. Then I pulled Sir Arthur down the stairs to the directories area and plonked him in front of the computer.

When the screen finally lit up, I pointed and clicked until I got our digitized copy of Lady Conan Doyle's 1914 diary of their trip through Western Canada.

"The Friends bought the original at auction," I gabbled, "and the Library digitized it. Look!"

Using the mouse, I moved the cursor arrow across the page, opening the book. Sir Arthur's eyes near popped.

"That's my wife's handwriting! The very picture of her little book, down to the red cover! And how did you turn that page as though it were paper?"

I clicked on a highlighted word. A 'window' showing a picture of a ship and the accompanying caption suddenly appeared.

"Marvellous!" His right hand clenched, opened, and clenched again. I laughed and relinquished the mouse to him. He moved and clicked it several times, laughing and exclaiming as he 'turned' pages and 'opened windows'.

"My word! I must show this to Jean and the children. It's wonderful!" he kept saying. I don't know if he was beaming more from mastering a new technical 'marvel' or from pride that his beloved wife's diary was 'published' in a new medium.

He drew a crowd of gawkers – almost all the patrons – with his glee. The moment they heard Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was actually in the Library, they came in like a tsunami, plucking at his clothes and pressing pens and papers into his hands, begging for his autograph. Cellphoned pictures of him were clicked and sent around the globe.

And the questions! Was Michael Jackson's spirit willing to be channelled? Has he, or Michael, seen actual fairies 'over there'. Was Sherlock Holmes real? Who was 'Jack the Ripper'? Had JFK been shot from the 'Grassy Knoll'?

The hoopla brought first the guards and librarians, then the executives and the photographers. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Manifestation was the lead story on all the new networks, and _The Globe and Mail _gave it the entire front page. Never in Canadian history was a man so mobbed - not even Pierre Trudeau. It was an Afternoon to Remember.

Of course I got the chewing out of my life, but Sir Arthur graciously took the blame upon himself and saved my job.


End file.
